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THE  PRISON  SHIPS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  PRISON  SHIPS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

THOMAS  WALSH 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1909 


Copyright,    1909 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &*  COMPANY 


Certain  numbers  in  the  present  collection 
are  reprinted  through  the  courtesy  of  the 
Editors  of  Ainslee's,  The  Atlantic,  The 
Ave  Maria,  The  Bookman,  The  Century, 
The  Cosmopolitan,  The  Critic,  Every- 
body's, The  Forum,  Harper's,  The  Inde- 
pendent, Lippincott's,  The  Messenger, 
Munsey's,  The  Reader,  The  Smart  Set, 
and  Scribner's  Magazine. 


43540.1 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   PRISON  SHIPS .13 

AD   ASTRA 20 

THE   BLIND .21 

EXPIATION (.  22 

ENDLESS  SPRING .23 

JOHN   MILTON 24 

SEAGULLS  IN  NEW  YORK  HARBOR  ...  25 

DIVINATION 27 

THE  EPITAPH  OF  A  BUTTERFLY  ....  28 

AT  NAZARETH 29 

SNOW  FUGUE 31 

INVOCATION  OF  THE  BUTTERFLIES     .     .  32 

ON  LAKE  TRASIMENO 33 

THE  HILL  PEOPLE 35 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  ROSE 36 

DAYBREAK 37 

CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD       ....  38 

LITTLE   PATHWAYS 39 

VIGILIA 41 

BLACK  JOHN'S  WAY 42 

WHERE  DREAMS  GO  BY 43 

WORLD    RUNES 44 

GETTYSBURG 46 

DIS   PLACIDIS 48 

ON  A  NIGHTINGALE  AT  AMALFI  ....  49 

FROM  AVIGNON  TO  TARASCON 50 

ON  THE  VERANDA  ....  52 


PAGE 

ALHAMBRA  SONG 53 

IN  A  FRIEND'S  GUIDE-BOOK 54 

LARGESSES 55 

ON  A  GATE-STONE  AT  GRANADA  ....  56 

THE  CHANOINESSE 59 

THE  UHLAN 61 

PENITENTS .  62 

IN  MEMORY'S  GARDEN 64 

SONGS 65 

STAR-TRYSTS 66 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  LOVE 67 

THE    VOICE 68 

THE   HAIL 70 

DREAM    ELOQUENCE 71 

A  SIGH  FROM  ALHAMBRA 19 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  AUGUSTUS 73 

IN  THE  CLOISTER  OF  SAN  JUAN  ....  77 

THE  LEVANTINE 80 

AFTERGLOW 81 

THE  HOURS S2 

RUSSIAN  SPRINGSONG  AFTER  MINAIEV    .  84 

ON  THE  PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA,  ROMfl          .     .  85 

MATINS 87 

GROVER  CLEVELAND 88 

WITH  THE  SHEPHERDS 89 

NO  SPRING  TILL  NOW 91 

A  GARDEN  PRAYER 93 

THE  NOEL  OF  ST.  ELOI 97 

NIGHT  IN  THE  SUBURBS 99 

RAVELLO    .                                                                  .  101 


PAGE 

SEVILLANA 104 

TO  FRANCIS  THOMSON 106 

THE  CATHEDRAL,  BURGOS,1006 107 

THE  TARDY  SPRING  . 109 

THE  POOL  OF  THE  HAZELS 110 

NOEL     OF     STE.     ANNE     DE     CHICOUTIMI, 

QUEBEC ...  HI 

A  PANEL  AFTER  TURNER 113 

TO  AN  ENGLISH  SETTER 114 

HOW  LIKE  THE  ROSE    .  115 


AD    MATREM 

CATHERINE  FARRELL  WALSH 
IN  DEDICATION 


THE  PRISON  SHIPS 

ODE  READ  AT  THE  DEDICATORY  EXERCISES  OP  THE 

PRISON-SHIP  MARTYRS'  MONUMENT  ON  FORT 

GREENE,  WASHINGTON  PARK,  BROOKLYN, 

NEW  YORK,  NOVEMBER  14,  1908. 

NOT  here  the  frenzied  onslaught  —  here  no 
roar 

Of  victory  —  no  raucous  cry  of  hate 
From  the  red  surge  of  war ; 
Here  crowd  no  Caesar's  myrmidons  of  state 
Lest  for  some  hasty-fading  laurels  he  be  late 
And  night  annul  his  place ; 
But  solemn  is  the  tread  of  feet  that  come 
Around  this  hallowed  mount  —  with  drum 
Concordant  —  with  the  clarion 
Of  youthful  hearts  that  throb  for  deeds  sub- 
lime— 

Here  where  no  stain  can  e'er  deface 
This  columned  beauty  out  of  Parthenon, — 
This  glory  surging  pure  beyond  the  clouds  of 
Time. 

Here  on  our  fortress  hill 

Where    Freedom's    gathering    vanguards    took 

their  stand, 

O  sacred  relics !  —  how  serene  ye  lay, 
How  patient  for  this  day 
Whose  rites  we  now  fulfill! 


Thousands  of  dusks  and  dawns  have  trembled  on 

These  portals  of  your  tomb ; 

Ye  heard  the  tread  of  discord  shake  the  land, 

The  trumpetings  of  doom ;  — 

Yea,  through  your  sleep  ye  knew  the  orphan's 

cry, 

The  broken  hearts'  far  clamoring, 
And  the  pale  heroes  plucking  deathless  wreaths 
From  fields  o'ershadowed  by  the  buzzard's  wing ! 
Oh,  in  what  direful  school 
Learned  ye  the  iron  rigor  of  the  mind 
Your  memory  bequeaths? 
Was  it  in  plague  and  famine  ye  did  find 
Such  right  divine  to  rule  — 
Such  hope  in  God  and  man  —  that  double  stay 
Of  commonwealths  to-day? 
For  here,  the  sponsors  for  all  ages, 
Ye  gave  as  solemn  gages 
Not  blood  alone 
But  very  flesh  and  bone ! 

Nor  pledged  ye  only  for  the  strong  and  brave, 
But  for  the  generations  yet  unborn 
By  every  strand  remote  that  greets  the  morn, 
For  the  pale  despot  shackled  to  his  throne 
As  for  the  serf  and  slave. 
O  stalworth  dreamers  in  the  dust, 
That  God  who  took  your  young  hearts'  trust, 
Your  pangs,  the  issue  of  your  patriot  cause, 
Still  sways  the  stars  and  souls  of  men 

[14] 


With  th'  ancient  seals  and  laws ; 

Nor  did  He  turn  and  mock  your  anguish  when 

Ye  cried  His  password  through  eternity 

And  died  in  fetters  so  ye  might  be  free. 

O  martyrdom  of  hope !  —  to  lie 

In  youth  and  strength  —  and  die 

'Mid  rotting  hulks  that  once  by  every  sea 

And  star  swung  carelessly  — 

To  die  becalmed  in  war's  black  hell, 

Where  in  the  noon's  wide  blaze  your  hearts  could 

soar 

With  gull  and  eagle  by  each  cherished  shore 
Of  home  —  where  ye  had  sworn  to  dwell 
The  fathers  of  the  free. 
Doom  like  to  this  the  Lydian  victim  bore 
Who  clutched  at  feasts  divine  —  only  to  starve 

the  more. 

Well  might  the  blue  skies  and  the  breeze 
Which  once  perchance  swept  Delphi  o'er, 
Well  might  the  star-eyes  question : — "  What  arc 

these 

Heaped  holocausts  on  Freedom's  shrine? 
Not  even  the  dullard  ox  unto  our  altars  led 
Of  old,  but  walked  'mid  reverent  throng 
Anoint  and  garlanded ! 
What  rite  of  hate  or  scorn  of  law  divine 
Strikes  down  its  victims  here 
With  not  a  funeral  song 
Nor  poor  libation  of  a  tear?  w 

[  15] 


To-day  give  answer  —  ye,  who  'mid  the  battle's 

roar 

Have  known  the  rapture  of  a  patriot's  death, — 
Ye,  who  have  seen  the  aureole  trembling  o'er 
Your  brows  as  anguish  clutched  at  Life's  fond 

breath, — 

Blessed  and  radiant  now !  —  look  down 
In  consecration  of  the  solemn  deed 
Which  here  commemorates  this  iron  breed 
Of  martyrs  nameless  in  the  clay 
As  the  true  heroes  of  our  newer  day  — 
World-heroes  —  patterned    not    on    king    and 

demi-god 

Of  charioted  splendor  or  of  crown 
Blood-crusted  —  but  on  toilers  in  the  sod, 
On  reapers  of  the  sea,  on  lovers  of  mankind, 
Whose  bruised  shoulders  bear 
The  lumbering  wain  of  progress  —  all  who  share 
The  crust  and  sorrows  of  our  mortal  lot  — 
Lamps  of  the  soul  The  Christ  hath  left  behind 
To  light  the  path  whereon  He  faltered  not. 

Yea,  now  the  boom  of  guns, 
The  scarlet  bugles,  faint  from  off  the  world ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  loftier  brows  of  man,  unfurled 
The  purer  banners  of  the  dawning  suns ! 
Banners  of  God  in  godlike  minds  —  of  hope  — 
Of  faith,  to  daunt  the  crafty  hordes  of  greed, 
The  venomed  remnant  of  the  dragon's  seed 

[  16] 


Along  the  gutters  of  the  world !     No  more  men 

grope 
Up  Life's  black  chasms  —  but  free  they  swing 

along 

Their  spacious  levels  in  the  noon's  full  flow'r 
And  strike  to  earth  the  barricades  of  wrong. 
They  have  torn  down  the  tyrants  of  an  hour, — 
Think  not  that  they  shall  hear  the  deeps  of 

shame 

Foredoom  them  likewise  with  the  despot's  name ; 
Nor  doubt  this  glorious  vessel  of  our  state, 
This  visioned  bark,  whereof  in  martyr  dreams 
From  death's  grim  hulks  they  caught  the  hal- 
yard gleams, — 

No  feud  can  seize  it,  nor  the  grip  of  hate 
Turn  back  its  prow  into  the  slime 
For  scorn  to  overwhelm 
With  name  so  cursed  on  the  lips  of  Time 
As  "  prison-ship  "  for  men  who  would  be  free ! 

High  God,  Thy  hand  was  on  another  helm 

When  every  tide  and  breeze 

Brought  the  hope-lighted  argosies 

From  out  the  ports  of  hunger  and  of  wrong ! 

And  Thou  alone  hast  number  kept 

Of  that  indomitable  throng 

Who  gained  this  harbor  portal, 

From  out  their  house  of  bondage  crept 

And  sought  the  north,  the  south,  the  west, — 

[  17  ] 


Armies   of   thrift   and   faith   with   hearts   that 

blessed 

These  graves  immortal! 

To-day  from  far  their  Freedom-lighted  brows 
Turn  hither  musing  on  their  happy  prows 
That  met  the  tides  of  sacred  waters  here 
And  touched  a  lustral  shore  whose  shrines  unto 

the  skies  uprear. 

And  ye,  O  sailors  faring  buoyant  forth, 
Bear  ye  the  tidings  of  this  joy-swept  main 
Where  round  the  coasts  of  Celt  or  Dane 
Ye  brave  the  sleet-mouthed  north 
Or  track  the  moon  on  some  Sicilian  wave 
Or  lonely  cape  of  Spain ; 
Take  ye  the  story  of  these  comrades  true 
Whose  prison  hulks  sank  here 
Where  now  such  tides  of  men  are  poured 
As  never  surged  o'er  crag  or  fiord 
To  stay  the  gulls  with  fear  — 
Who  yet  such  quest  of  glory  knew 
As  never  Argonaut  of  old 
Seeking  the  shores  of  gold  — 
As  never  knight  from  wound  and  vigil  pale 
Tracing  o'er  sunset  worlds  his  Holy  Graal ! 

And  lo !  —  to  all  the  seas  a  pharos  set 

In   sign    memorial!     Through   the   glooms   of 

Time 
'Twill  teach  a  sacrifice  of  self,  sublime 

[18] 


O'er  lash  of  storms  as  through  corroding  calms. 

Nor  e'er  alone  shall  shine 

Its  love-bright  parapet; 

But  every  star  shall  bring  a  golden  alms ;  — 

The  seething  harbor  line 

Glow  'neath  its  star-fed  hives,  its  swing  and  flare 

Of  Bridges ;  —  while  with  pilgrim  lamps  from 

sea 

Shall  grope  the  dreadnought  fleets ;  —  while  end- 
less prayer 

Of  dawns  and  sunsets  floods  the  faces  far 
Uplifted,  tear-stained,  to  this  Martyr  shrine, — 
Whose  sister  torch  shall  greet  what  Liberty 
Holds  back  to  God, —  earth's  brightest  answer- 
ing star. 


[  19] 


AD  ASTRA 

LOVE,  you  are  late,— 
Yea,  while  the  rose  leaves  fall 
In  showers  against  the  moonlit  garden-wall, 
My  firm  hand  bars  the  gate. 
The  nightingale 

Has  worn  himself  with  pleading  ; 
The  fountains'  silvered  tears  are  interceding, 
But  what  is  their  avail? 


Love,  you  are  frfr  late, 

Long  stood  the  postern  wide 

With  all  my  morning-glories  twined;  inside 
Bird  called  to  bird  for  mate. 
Noon  and  the  sun,  — 

The  loves  of  bees  and  flow'rs  ; 

With  folded  hands  unclaimed  I  marked  the 

hours 
That  saw  my  youth  undone. 

Then  evening  star 

And  coming  of  the  moon  ! 

Ah,  not  too  soon,  my  soul,  ah,  not  too  soon 
Broke  their  soft  grace  afar  ! 
All  consecrate, 

I  chose  my  white  path  there, 

And  took  the  withered  roses  from  my  hair. 
Love,  you  are  £f$flate,  —  too  late  ! 

[  20] 


THE  BLIND 

AT  midnight,  through  my  dream,  the  signals 
dread 
From  star  to  star,  brought  word  the  sun  was 

dead. 

It  seemed  as  though1  entire  creation  heard 
Yet  gave  no  answer, —  neither  call  of  bird 
Nor  low  of  cattle ;  but  the  townsfolk  crept 
In  silence  to  their  roof-tops.     No  man  slept, 
But  merchant,  bondman,  prince  and  scribe  and 

priest, 

Their  faces  haggard,  searched  the  fateful  East. 
Down  from  the  hillsides  to  the  city  gates 
No    market    wains    came    rumbling   with    their 

freights ; 

No  sentry's  voice  along  the  citadel 
Announced  the  hour ;  no  matin  peal  or  knell 
From  dome  or  campanile;  not  a  sail 
Stirred  in  the  harbor  offing !     Then  a  wail 
Despairing  swept  across  the  roofs,  a  sigh 
O'er  land  and  sea,  as  slowly  on  the  sky 
The  sun's  black  bulk  between  the  stars  uprose  — 
One  sigh  of  astral  grief,  and  at  its  close 
Came  silence  once  again  more  terrible ! 
'Twas  then,  methought,  a  new-born  infant  cried ; 
And  where  the  gates  stood  open  gaunt  and  wide 
A  blind  man  crouched  and  stretched  his  empty 

palms 

Into  the  darkness  and  moaned,  "  Alms !    Alms ! " 
[21  1 


EXPIATION 

EARTH  o'er  her  plains  and  mountains  ha§ 
unrolled 

A  royal  carpet  all  of  red  and  gold 
Whereon  November  on  his  exiled  way 
Like  some  doomed  sultan  may  bow  down  and 
pray. 


[23] 


ENDLESS  SPRING 

fTlHERE  comes  a  whisper  through  my  heart 
A     As  night  o'ertakes  me  on  my  way 
Where  I  would  hold  my  cares  apart 

And  mourn  the  long  autumnal  day ; 
The  paths  I  love  await  the  snows, 

The  boughs  are  bare  of  song  and  wing, 
Yet  through  my  heart  the  whisper  goes 

That  somewhere  —  somewhere  there  is  spring. 

I  care  not  whether  near  or  far, — 

I  know  through  other  lands  it  goes 
With  drift  of  blossom,  glint  of  star, 

And  old-time  message  of  the  rose. 
I  cannot  ask  that  it  should  stay 

Lest  hearts  afar  lack  comforting ; 
Enough  for  me  to  know  alway 

That  somewhere  —  somewhere  there  is  spring. 

Beloved  —  O  where'er  you  be 

For  whom  my  thoughts  are  caroling  — 
O  answer,  heart  to  heart,  with  me 

That  somewhere  —  somewhere  there  is  spring. 


JOHN  MILTON 

1608  DECEMBER 1908 

WHAT  other  tread  is  on  Olympus  now  — 
O  vacant  winds  —  O  hollow  valleys  where 
Of  yore  the  Graces  roved!     What  sightless 

stare 
Now  awes  the  peaks  that  hailed  blind  Homer's 

brow !  — 
"  Great    Pan    is    dead " —  so    every    crag    and 

bough 
Bemoaned ;  —  "  Zeus,  vanished  from  his  high 

repair  — 
Apollo's  darts  unstrung !  " —  What  foot  hath 

there 
Dispersed  that  avalanche  of  gods  —  but  thou 

Who  strode  concurrent  with  the  angel  throng 
Of  Sinai  and  of  Tabor  —  as  the  choirs 
Of  Bethlehem  hill  caught  up  the  scattered 

lyres 
And   heaven's   Far-Darting   bow    was    made    a 

Cross. 

O  Milton,  still  doth  thine  epochal  song 
Sound  from  life's  peaks  upon  the  vales  of 
dross. 


SEAGULLS  IN  NEW  YORK  HARBOR 

WINGS  of  the  north  that  speak  of  Viking 
days, 

What  winter  madness  yearly  brings  you  here 
To  toss  and  scream  upon  the  harbor  ways 

Between  the  prows  that  whiten  far  and  near! 

Yon  seething  heights  and  canons  but  deride 
The  crags  that  nursed  you  in  the  isle'd  sea ; 

Yon  roar  of  human  traffic  speaks  of  tide 
More  terrible  than  theirs  and  bids  you  flee. 

For  soon  no  eye  shall  mark  you,  and  the  day 
Be  swiftly  heaped  into  the  furnace  west, 

That  tranquil  hour  your  northern  sisters  stay 
Their  briny  flights  and  wait  you  at  the  nest. 

Then  through  the  vasty  reaches  of  the  night 
Shall  vice  and  virtue  range  in  ancient  game 

Upon  one  living  checkerboard  of  light ; 
Where  bridges  raise  their  diadems  of  flame. 

Yea,  never  —  waking  in  their  midnight  caves  — 
Your  kindred  find  such  splendor  on  the  seas 

When   the   white  hermit,    North,    his    pennons 

waves ; 
Yea,  never  dream  of  witcheries  like  these. 


Think  you  that  at  the  dawn  the  fiery  eyes 

Which  guard  yon  outposts  shall  be  closed  in 
sleep? 

That  mid  yon  realm  of  gathering  shadows  lies 
Some  eyrie  like  your  old  ones  on  the  deep  ? 

Nay,  —  though  the  midnight  hush  the  sullen 
streams 

That  gloat  like  misers  o'er  the  rests  of  light, 
Think  not  to  find  your  haven  here  for  dreams, — 

But  to  the  sea,  O  winter  wings,  take  flight. 


[26] 


DIVINATION 

WHAT  glory  waits  upon  the  rose 
Where  light  of  more  than  earth  delays? 

Some  lineage  of  heaven  betrays 
Itself,  I  know,  in  tint  and  pose. 
A  starlight  through  the  day  it  throws, 

Yea,  all  my  nights  are  faint  to  praise 
What  glory  waits  upon  the  rose. 
The  spells  I  seek  no  wizard  knows, 

No  Mage  for  all  his  parchment  says, — 

But,  Sweetheart,  something  in  thy  gaze 
And  something  on  thy  lips  disclose 
What  glory  waits  upon  the  rose. 


[27] 


THE  EPITAPH  OF  A  BUTTERFLY 

AS  one  by  one  she  saw  the  leaves  of  red 
And  yellow  wafted  slowly  to  the  ground, 
Hope  buoyed  her  heavy  wings  of  flame  and  said 
That  'mong  them  still  some  comrade  might  be 
found. 

But  when  o'er  all  the  autumn  hills  a  pall 
Of  gold  was  drawn  before  her  glazing  eye, 

Yon  mirrored  pool  made  ready  for  her  fall 
A  grave  as  lovely  as  her  native  sky. 


[  28] 


AT  NAZARETH 

BEYOND  the  blackened  embers  of  the  earth 
The  west  withdraws  the  sinking  flames  of 

day; 

So  ends  the  seventh  annual  of  My  birth  — 
And    see  —  a    star,    to    taunt    our    brazier 

gray!— 
Dost  thou  remember  how  at  hours  like  these  — 

Nay,  mother,  I  was  not  too  young  to  know  — 
Thou  wouldst  go  meekly  down  upon  thy  knees 

And  opening  wide  our  rustic  coffer,  show 
The  Magi's  offerings  fondly  treasured  there: — 

The  golden  casket  with  its  store  of  stones 
And  coins  and  amulets  and  ciphers  rare ; 

The   incense    lamps,    the    myrrh's    be  jeweled 

cones 
With  wondrous  hieroglyphs  engraven  o'er. 

These  wouldst  thou  lift  into  My  baby  hands 
Until  My  breast  and  arms  could  hold  no  more ; 
Then  wouldst  thou  pour  the  precious  incense 

sands 
Upon  our  little  fire  and  all  the  room 

Grew  white  with  clouds  of  perfume  undefiled ; 
Then  wouldst  prostrate  thyself  amid  the  gloom, 

Sweet  mother,  all  alone  before  thy  Child. 
To-night  hast  thou  no  incense  for  thy  Son?  — 


[29] 


The  night  wind  finds   our  brazier  black  as 

death?  — 
Nay,  —  do  not  kneel  —  here,   here  My   breast 

upon, 
The  stars  shall  show  the  vapor  of  thy  breath. 


[80] 


SNOW  FUGUE 

fTlHE  moon,  the  mouldering  moon,  is  out 
A     Amid  the  ashes  of  the  years, 
Ere  with  his  straggling  hosts  in  rout 
Day  from  his  Moscow  disappears. 

And  hark !  the  blasts'  white  finger  beat 
The  mountain  drums  in  long  accord 

Out  where  the  cypresses  entreat  — 

Green  tongues  that  ceaseless  praise  the  Lord. 

O  Night  that  falls  upon  the  earth, — 
Be  gracious  unto  them  who  weep ! 

Soothe  thou  the  pangs  of  death  and  birth, 
And  flood  embittered  hearts  with  sleep ! 


C  31] 


INVOCATION  OF  THE  BUTTERFLIES 

PUEBLO  INDIAN  SONG 

BUTTERFLIES!  — 
Butterflies  of  daybreak  glancing 
O'er  the  yellow  fields  and  blue, — 
White  wing, —  red  wing, —  gold  wing, —  glanc- 
ing 

In  the  sun  motes,  whence  got  yoi 
That  apparel  so  entrancing?  — 

O  what  gardens  came  you  through, 

Butterflies? 
Golden,  pollen-tousled  lovers 

Of  the  corn-hearts  and  the  sun !  — 
Lilac-petalled  tribe,  that  hovers 

Near  the  skies  from  whence  it  won 
Shimmer  of  the  light  that  covers 
Fields  afar  when  day  is  done !  — 

Butterflies, 
Hither  —  crimson-cheeked  —  O  wander 

From  the  happy  lands  afar, 
Down  the  rainbow  pathway  yonder 

Where  the  clouds  of  water  are ! 
Haste  —  the  showers  of  pollen  squander, — 
Scatter  rains  from  stalk  and  star, — 
Butterflies ! 


ON  LAKE  TRASIMENO 

COLD  gleam  the  furrow  pools  with  shreds  of 
day 

On  Trasimeno's  marge ;  and  far  away 
The  moon  o'er  Sanguineto's  huts  is  seen  — 
The  year's  first  crescent  like  a  crown  serene 
Upon  the  brow  of  some  averted  face 
Whose  lineaments  no  mortal  eye  may  trace. 
There  unto  God  the  orchard  trees  lift  high 
Their   leafless   boughs    like   palsied   hands   and 

sigh,— 

"  We  are  too  old,  O  winds  of  winter,  spare !  " 
"  Too  old !     Too  old !  "  the  gray  hills'  answer- 
ing pray'r ; 
"  Have  we  not  borne  the  ploughs  of  bronze  and 

steel  — 
Seen  proud  Etruria  fall, —  writhed  'neath  the 

heel 

Of  Hannibal, —  and  drenched  our  thirsting  loam 
With  blood  the  richest  in  the  veins  of  Rome  ?  — 
We  are  too  old !     The  pigmy  despots  pass 
Finding  our  beauty  sterile ;  —  yea,  the  glass 
Of  Time  is  emptied  of  its  mightiest  grains 
And  no  strong  hand  to  turn  it  back  remains. 
Therefore,      your      pity!  —  newly      gathering 

year  — 

Ask    you    no    springtime,    no    more    harvest 
here!—" 

[33  ] 


But  hush,  there  breathes  from  where  the  islands 

He 

Melodious  remonstrance  in  a  sigh 
Across  the  water, — "  O  beloved  shore, 
Art  thou  so  soon  forgetful  how  we  bore 
Together  here  the  pulse  of  ancient  Mays  — 
When  I,  poor  brother  Francis,  trod  thy  ways 
From  dear  Assisi,  whilst  the  song  of  birds 
Scourged  us  with  rapture  and  the  south  wind's 

words 
Marshalled    the    brotherhoods    of    clouds    and 

flow'rs 

In  white  processions  through  the  sunlit  hours? 
Hast    thou    forgotten    these,    sweet    Umbrian 

shore  — 
And    all    our    Perfect    Joys?     Are    they    no 

more?"-— 

Then  silence  falls  and  o'er  the  hills  afar 
Drift  incense  flakes  of  blossoms  such  as  are 
At  Whitsuntide  beneath  the  evening  star. 


[34] 


THE  HILL  PEOPLE 

OVER  the  shoulders  of  hills  where  the  great 
clouds  huddle  around  us, 
With  eyes  half  averted  we  gaze  out  afar  on 

the  plain 
Where  trudges  the  infinite  herd  —  the  low-hung 

heads  that  confound  us  — 
Under  the  rose-dust  haze  of  the  canon's  limit- 
less chain. 

Herd    unreturning    that    swarms,    numberless, 

slumberless,  over 
Wastes   in   the  blaze   of  whose   noon   not   a 

shadow  nor  respite  arrives ; 
Age  upon  age  do  they  trudge,  yet  never  can 

vision  discover 

End  to  the  flock  and  its  range  —  nor  the  face 
of  the  herdsman  that  drives. 

Far  in  the  cloud-laden  hills  we  are  lulled  to  their 

treading  of  thunder, 
As  under  the  zenith  ablaze  they  pass  without 

signal  or  word  — 
Stay !  —  on  our  throats  there's  a  hand !  —  The 

Rancher !  —  His  brow,  O  the  wonder !  — 
He  drives^down  through  the  gorge  where  his 
white  steed  rounds  up  the  herd ! 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  ROSE 

WHAT  are  the  joys  of  the  rose?  — 
The  silence  of  night  at  the  shrine 
Where  it  lies  in  a  rapture  divine ; 
The  exquisite  moment  it  knows 

On  the  breast  of  a  bride ;  its  last  sighs 
On  the  lips  of  a  poet  who  dies ; — 
These  are  the  joys  of  the  rose. 

What  are  the  griefs  of  the  rose? 

To  lie  in  the  clasp  of  the  dead 

While  the  tears  of  a  mother  are  shed ; 
To  symbol  a  passion  that  goes, 

To  fade  on  bosom  unkind; 

To  perish  unplucked  on  the  wind; — 
These  are  the  griefs  of  the  rose. 


[36] 


DAYBREAK 

T  \  7HILE  low  before  the  throne  of  pearl  there 
VV    bend 

Acclaiming  seraphs  in  majestic  throng, 
And  whirlwinds  of  Laudates  without  end 

Shake  God's  far-shining  citadels  with  song ; 

Against  the  half -veiled  lattice  of  the  morn 
A  truant  cherub  peeps  across  the  dark 

And  'neath  the  straggling  clouds  and  stars  out- 
worn, 
Strains  his  pink  ear  to  list  the  rising  lark. 


[37] 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 

THE   POET   OF   THE  SOUTH   SEAS 
1843-1909 

THINE  exile  ended, —  O  beloved  seer, — 
Thou  turnest  homeward  to  thine  isles  of 
light, 

Thy  reefs  of  silver,  and  palmetto  height ! 
Yea,  down  thy  vales  sonorous  thou  wouldst  hear 
Again  the  cataracts  that  white  and  clear 

Called  from  young  days  —  oh,  with  what  lov- 
ing might !  — 

That  from  our  arms  and  this  embattled  night 
Thou  break'st  away  and  leav'st  us  weeping  here. 

Vain   the   laudation !  —  What   are    crowns    and 

praise 
To  thee  whom  Youth  anointed  on  the  eyes? 

We  have  but  known  the  lesser  heart  of  thee 
Whose  spirit  bloomed  in  lilies  down  the  ways 
Of  Padua ;  whose  voice  perpetual  sighs 
On  Molokai  in  tides  of  melody. 


[  38] 


LITTLE  PATHWAYS 

NOT  by  the  highways  and  the  streets,  dear 
friend, 
Where  kings  and  merchants  and  their  minions 

wend, 

But  by  the  little  pathways  let  us  go 
Lone  ways  that  only  humble  footsteps  know. 
No  dawdling  feet  upon  the  world's  parade 
Made  yonder  tracks  that  wind  across  the  glade 
Where  slyly  from  the  flooded  haunts  of  men 
Life  trickles  back  into  the  wilds  again. 
See,  here  anon  and  there  the  ways  divide 
Some  to  the  brook  and  some  to  the  pasture  side, 
Glancing  sweet  invitation  as  they  turn 
To  draw  us  with  them  through  the  beds  of  fern. 
For  each  though  lowly  in  its  crude  design 
Leads  somewhere  —  somewhere,  mystery  benign ; 
And  where  the  trail  seems  beaten  hard  and  brown 
Perchance   the    woodsmen   turn   from   out   the 

town; 

And  where  yon  slender  course  but  seems  to  stray 
Some  meadow  lies  or  else  the  secret  way 
A  timid  lover  hastens  to  his  sweet. 
Ah,  look,  another  half  o'er-grown  we  meet, 
But  still  memorial  of  old  travellers. 
'Twas  death,  perchance,  or  fault,  alas,  of  hers. 
If  now  the  grass  has  crept  its  footprints  o'er ; 
Perchance  it  led  to  home  —  a  home  no  more. 

[  89] 


'Tis  ours,  old  friend,  to  treasure  signs  like  these 
Wherein  are  written  rarer  histories 
Than  chronicles  of  kings  and  empires  tell ; 
For  on  the  scrolling  of  the  hill  and  dell 
Life  with  a  finger  delicate  and  sure 
Sets  for  our  eyes  its  heart's  own  signature. 
Soft  to  these  hollow  footways  steal  the  leaves 
When  autumn  turns  to  threaten;  winter  heaves 
His  warning  breath  of  snowflakes  earliest  here ; 
Each  in  its  little  pulse  reports  the  year. 
Here  when  the  golden  dulcimers  of  spring 
Strike  to  the  forest  chords'  awakening, 
Here  are  the  primal  leaf  and  grasses  stirred 
In  answer  with  Amens  of  brook  and  bird. 
Thus  sweetly  intimate  with  tender  moods 
Our  pathways  greet  us  from  the  solitudes ; 
Here  from  the  past  such  fond  reminders  flow 
As  bid  the  future  its  vast  claims  forego, 
Though  by  yon  paths  that  by  the  thicket  wind 
The  scythe  of  Time  may  other  harvest  find, 
Though  Life  exult  as  in  its  proudest  veins 
And  Empire  course, —  where  now  are  mountain 
rains. 


[40  ] 


VIGILIA 

STILL  let  me  dream  of  her, — 
O  winds  of  summer  tangling  rose  and  star ! 
Night,  let  your  witcheries  but  minister 
New  harmonies  to  echo  her  afar ! 

Still  let  me  dream  of  her, — 

Though  e'en  at  noon  Fame's  banners  white  be 

furled ; 
Though  joy  and  laughter  cease, —  the  little  purr 

Of  cities  and  the  frothing  of  the  world ! 

Though  trumpets  rend  my  ears 

With  Titan  strife  of  passions, —  though  the 

hours 
Crush  me  like  chariot  wheels, —  the  gathering 

years 

Beat    all    earth's    weeping    on    my    head    in 
show'rs !  — 

Yea,  though  Life  fall  away 

Into  a  shadowy  haunt  of  things  that  were, — 
Though  Night  be  heaped  in  chaos  on  the  Day, — 

Still  let  me  dream, —  still  let  me  dream  of  her ! 


[41  ] 


BLACK  JOHN'S  WAY 

THERE  came  a  Merry-man  down  the  lane 
(Heigh-ho  and  a  linkum-laddie) 
And  tapped  with  his  bells  at  the  ale-house  pane 
Whilst  under  the  hill  stole  a  sail  from  Spain. 
(Fol-de-rol  and  a  f  ol-de-raddy .) 

Never  came  sound  or  a  torch  to  light 

(Heigh-ho  and  a  linkum-laddie) 
Black- John  the  Papist's  house  that  night ; 
But  the  dawn  heard  spurs  and  the  gallop  of 
flight  — 

(Fol-de-rol  and  a  f  ol-de-raddy). 

By  Saint  Cuthbert's  Well  Nat  Tinker  dreamed 

(Heigh-ho  and  a  linkum-laddie) 
That  a  shaven  pate  'neath  the  torches  gleamed 
As    a    bride  —  Black- John's    fair    daughter  — 
screamed. 

(Fol-de-rol  and  a  f  ol-de-raddy. ) 

There's  Spanish  gold  in  the  holy  well, 

(Heigh-ho  and  a  linkum-laddie) 
There's    a    Roundhead    youth    has    cursed    its 

spell!  — 

There's  a  cheek  like  snow  at  the  court  of  Spain, 
But  never  a  Merry-man  down  the  lane. 

(Fol-de-rol  and  a  f  ol-de-raddy .) 

[42] 


WHERE  DREAMS  GO  BY 

OVER  the  hill  there's  a  roadway  turns 
Through  the  fields  of  barley,  wheat  and 

hay; 

The  moonlight  paves  it,  the  noontide  burns, 
The  clouds  trail  over  it  all  the  day. 

It  is  the  road  where  my  dreams  go  by 
O'er  velvet  thresholds  to  the  dawns ; 

It  tells  me  where  the  hamlets  lie, 
The  silver  spires,  the  pasture  lawns. 

"  Put  by," —  it  signs  me, —  "your  cloak  of  care, 
And  think  no  more  on  the  old  worlds  gone ; 

Here  are  ;0)e  Hesperides  more  fair, 
Here  lovelier  vales  than  Avalon ! " 


[43] 


WORLD  RUNES 

HOAR  are  the  cloud-peaks  when  the  day  is 
done 

In  druid  conclave  round  the  mystic  sun ; 
Night's  silver  eloquence  of  star  and  moon, — 
The  tides,  the  seasons,  and  the  winds  in  tune, 
Would,  were  their  vast  significance  not  vain, 
Solve  the  enigma  of  our  joys  and  pain 
With  words  majestical  as  those  the  trees 
Heave  from  their  breasts  unburthened  by  the 

breeze. 

Ah,  'tis  not  utterance  of  theirs  at  fault ! 
Hath  not  the  earth,  and  earths  that  star  the 

vault, 

A  kindred  language  ?     This  the  heart  of  man 
Instinctive  fathomed  when  his  race  began, 
Though  now  with  soul  left  fallow,  and  grown 

cold, 

No  more  interprets  he  those  voices  old. 
Not  so  when  down  Cumsea's  mountain  ways 
The  leaves  were  scattered  for  the  Sybil's  gaze ; 
Not  when  the  wizards  on  the  isles  of  old 
Bartered  the  fair  winds  for  the  Vikings'  gold. 
Deem  you  that  secret  perished?     Nay,  though 

worn 

With  bearing  fruitless  message,  night  and  morn 
Old  Earth,  as  one  in  mortal  travail,  cries 
For  hearts  to  take  her  wisdom  ere  it  dies. 

[  44] 


Thus  when  by  night  beneath  some  harvest  moon 
Her  vales  seem  gathered  in  ecstatic  swoon 
Of  mystery  and  sadness ;  when  the  wind 
Trumpets    the    morning;    or    the    heavens    are 

signed 

For  battle, —  fain  again  would  she  essay 
The  ancient  word  that  holds  our  souls  at  bay ; 
Her  lips  eternal,  anguished,  seem  to  part  — 
Ah,  is  it  only  silence  fills  our  heart? 


[45] 


GETTYSBURG 

WHO  sleep  at  Gettysburg  sleep  well ; 
A  peace  beyond  the  dreams  of  glory 
Laps  them  in  sunshine  where  they  fell. 
The  very  winds  that  croon  them  tell 

Of  hatreds  like  a  drowsy  story ; 
Blue  look  the  skies  on  where  they  dwelL 

Ah,  blanched  with  peace  are  Blue  and  Gray 
Who  come  to  tread  these  uplands  —  slowly 

Lest  in  the  merest  piece  of  clay 

That  holds  a  flower  or  lines  the  way, 
Some  vestige  of  a  heart-pulse  holy  — 

Some  comrade's  heart  —  be  stirred  to-day. 

But  of  that  myriad  host,  ah,  where 

Are  they  —  the  young,   the  loved,  th'   un- 
daunted, 

The  warring  brothers  marshalled  there, 
Defiance  in  their  seraph  air, 

Their  eyes  with  death's  white  beauty  haunted, 
Their  hands  to  do,  their  souls  to  dare? 

Hush,  song ;  among  these  storied  flow'rs, 
These  pallid  shafts  and  waving  grasses, 

Wake  not  such  little  plaint  as  ours ; 

See  with  what  calmness  nature  dow'rs 
The  silence  of  these  meadow  passes 

In  chastened  sunlight,  softened  show'rs. 
[  46] 


Not  here  their  sole  memorials  — 

But  where  th'  eternal  rainbow  quivers 

Athwart  the  rush  of  waterfalls ; 

By  gleam  of  lakes  and  canon  walls, 

By  north  and  southland  swirl  of  rivers, 

Where  eagle  wings  or  bittern  calls. 


DIS  PLACIDIS 

T  PRAY  the  gods  to  spare  me 
JL    From  this  dire  love  of  mine 
Whose  sorrows  rend  and  tear  me, 
Whose  joys  are  poisoned  wine ! 

Yea,  gods,  take  back  your  pleasures, 
Take  back  your  gifts  divine, 

And  from  your  hearts'  own  treasures 
Grant  peace  at  last  to  mine ! 


[48] 


ON  A  NIGHTINGALE  AT  AMALFI 

THERE'S  an  old,  old  tree   of  the  orchard 
hangs  over  the  cliff  in  the  moonlight 
Where  now  is  a  nightingale  come  to  sob,  and 

sob,  to  the  breeze ; 
All  the  sorrows  of  proud,  lost  worlds  seem  voiced 

in  that  desolate  bosom, 
With  a  cry  to  my  heart  that  has  turned  from 

the  young  world  over  the  seas 
To  clamor  alone  of  its  griefs  —  boyish  griefs 
that  are  naught  to  these. 

O  ye  who  sang  through  the  ages  —  poets  of 

Araby,  Athens, 
And  Rome, —  were  ye  deadened  to  woe,  were 

your  bosoms  so  strong, — 
Vast  hearts,  that  ye  hearkened  this  voicing  of 

youth  and  of  sacrifice  thwarted, 
Of  loves  into  mockery  fallen,  of  shrines  where 

no  suppliants  throng, 
Of  empires  and  cities  in  briars  and  ashes, — 

and  called  it  a  song ! 


[49] 


FROM  AVIGNON  TO  TARASCON 

FROM  Avignon  to  Tarascon 
Psalms  have  died  away  in  laughter ; 
Spire,  and  turret,  and  donjon 
Echo  but  some  rigadon 

Careless  of  the  Great  Hereafter. 
Never  more  reflects  the  river 

Tonsured  head  or  plumed  one, — 

Pope  and  monk  and  prince  are  gone, 
Troubadour  and  hearty-liver 

From  Avignon  to  Tarascon. 
Yet  to-day  the  Rhone  goes  singing 

Quite  as  though  no  Papal  John 

With  his  huntsmen's  clarion 
Ever  set  its  woodlands  ringing ; 

Quite  as  though  no  rogue  in  iron 
Jousted  here,  nor  amazon 

In  severity  or  fun 

Proved  half -deaconess,  half  siren, 
From  Avignon  to  Tarascon. 

Sun  and  vineyard  still  betray  man  — 
Chateau-Neuf's  red  juices  run  — 
Brigand  still  is  Cupidon 

To  many  a  lass  and  godless  layman 
From  Avignon  to  Tarascon. 

Ah  —  what  rosy  sacrileges, 


[50] 


Broken  vows,  we've  left  upon 

Lips  like  Jeanne's  or  Marthe- Yvonne ! 

Floating  past  the  blossom  hedges 
From  Avignon  to  Tarascon ! 


ON  THE  VERANDA 

ON  the  veranda  while  the  waning  moon 
Flooded  the  vineyards  and  the  glens  of 

June, 

We  gathered,  singing  softly  in  the  shade 
The  sighful  branches  of  the  trellis  made. 
The  elders  listened  silent  as  our  song 
Passed  from  each  well-loved  melody  along :  — 
Through  sweet  plantation  tunes,  and  hymns  of 

war, 

And  simple  glees  and  ballads  loved  of  yore. 
They  sat  apart,  their  thoughts  upon  the  days 
And  voices  silenced  —  while  the  moon's  pale  rays 
Transformed  the  orchard  to  a  dreamlike  place 
Hung  round  with  light  and  shadow  as  with  lace. 
And  when  the  youthful  chorus  wearied  grew 
And  to  the  house  they  pensively  withdrew, 
There  in  the  shelter  of  the  silvered  vine 
My  fingers  taking  courage  stole  to  thine. 


[52] 


ALHAMBRA  SONG 

WOULDST  thou  be  comrade  to  the  rose, 
Yet  of  the  thorns  complain? 
Wouldst  pine  for  rarer  pearls  than  those 
The  diver  seeks  where  Aden  flows, 
Yet  fear  to  tempt  the  main  ? 

See  where  upon  the  twilight  hills 

Zuleika's  lamp  awakes ; 
There's  not  a  nightingale  that  thrills 
These  vales  with  song  so  sweet  as  fills 

The  heart  that  sings  and  breaks. 

Yet  should  thy  panting  lips  refuse 

In  love's  fond  lists  to  vie 
With  nightingale,  thou  else  must  choose 
Within  yon  lamp  thyself  to  lose  — 

A  moth  —  and  give  no  sigh. 


[58] 


IN  A  FRIEND'S  GUIDE-BOOK 

A  FLOWER  of  Spain  —  a  yellow  rose  of  Se- 
ville 
That  graced  of  old  some  gypsey's  lustrous 

hair  — 

The  spoil,  I  fancy,  which  the  lucky  devil 
Bore  off  in  memory  of  his  folly  there. 

A  flower  of  Spain  some  gracious  senorita 
Has  thrown  at  carnival  amid  the  ball  — 

Or  bashful  token  of  some  Mariquita 

With  fan,  mantilla,  and  embroidered  shawl. 

A  flower  of  Spain  —  ah,  not  his  last  memento 
Of  Moorish  gardens  seen  by  honeymoon  — 

Left  in  his  guide-book  indiscreetly  lent  to 
Another  tourist  in  the  month  of  June  ?  — 

A  flower  of  Spain  —  yes,  Time  prepares  to  blot 
it 

To  rust  and  ashes,  all  its  fragrance  flown !  — 
'Tis  evident  the  rascal  has  forgot  it  — 

But  I  shall  add  some  others  of  my  own. 


[54  ] 


LARGESSES 

WHAT  silver  largesses  are  these 
That  scatter  from  the  almond  trees,- 
O  beggars,  cease  your  mirth,  and  say 
What  little  bride  hath  passed  the  way? 

"  'Tis  April,  April,"—  they  replied,— 
"  The  villagers  have  hailed  as  bride, 
Whose  silver  largess  glads  us  more 
Than  aU  the  Autumn's  golden  store." 


ON  A  GATE-STONE  AT  GRANADA 

TT  ERE  stood  the  little  garden  where 
J.  J.  Of  old  when  joy  was  mine, 
Over  her  cheeks'  two  roses  rare 

Her  eyes,—  twain  stars, —  would  shine. 
They  say  her  beauty  flaunts  its  flower 

Within  the  courts  of  kings  afar ; 

But  see  how  thorns  enmesh  the  bower, 

And  never  comes  a  star ! 


[56] 


TO 
ED.  AND  EMMA 


THE  CHANOINESSE 

WITH   vinaigrette,  and  purple  robe,   and 
fan, 
Madame   Mathilde  would  take  the  morning 

air; 
Adown  the  formal  paths  her  old  sedan 

Goes  gravely  moving  round  the  bright  par- 
terre, 

By  gravelled  walk  and  grotto,  with  their  gleam 
Of  marble  nymph  and  satyr,  row  on  row ; 

By  storied  oak,  cascade,  and  glen,  that  seem 
The  shepherd  haunts  of  Boucher  and  Wat- 
teau. 

Her  faithful  Jacques  and  Joseph,  as  of  yore, 
Go  drowsing  with  her  chair ;  they  too  can  see 

The  vision  of  old  days  —  alas,  no  more  — 
That  steals  her  from  her  jewelled  rosary. 

'Tis  fair  Versailles  she  sees, —  the  masques,  the 

plays, 

Pavanes  and  minuets ;  she  hears  —  beguiled  — 
The  horns  of  St.-Germain's  far  hunting-days 
When  beauty  crowned  her,  when  Great  Louis 
smiled. 


[  59] 


And  hark,  another  horn !     Before  her  eyes 
There  comes  her  lover  scarcely  more  than  boy ; 

She  sees  him  pass  in  proud  and  martial  guise ; 
Her  dry  eyes  melt, —  she  weeps  o'er  Fontenoy. 

Bright  days  of  conquest, —  bitter  memories 
That  break  her  spirit !  —  till  the  old  command 

Lights  in  her  eyes,  as  down  the  path  she  sees 
Her  dear  cure  approaching  hat  in  hand. 


[60] 


THE  UHLAN 

YOUNG  Hugo's  an  Uhlan, 
An  Uhlan  so  fine; 
His  horse  is  the  Kaiser's, 
But  Hugo  is  mine. 

To  the  cry  of  the  clarion  rides  he  away ; 
'Tis  with  softest  of  whispers  I  make  him  obey. 

Though  sunlight  flash  bravely  from  sabre  and 

lance, 
I  feel  that  he  trembles  in  meeting  my  glance. 

But  fearless  in  battle  my  Hugo  can  be ; 
As  fierce  as  the  f  oeman,  as  tender  to  me. 

Ay,  flutter  light  pennon  away  to  the  strife ; 
On  my  tiniest  finger  I  balance  his  life. 

For  Hugo's  an  Uhlan, 

An  Uhlan  so  fine; 
His  horse  is  the  Kaiser's, 

But  Hugo  is  mine. 


[61  ] 


PENITENTS 

WHITE  -fingers  tapping  on  the  pane 
Through  all  the  ghostly  day, — 
White  faces  down  the  orchard  lane 
Where  gusts  and  snowdrifts  play, — 

My  heart  would  hear  the  message* 
Your  lips  are  fain  to  say! 

We  are  the  myriads  whom  men 
Have  loved  from  olden  time ; 

The  spectre  train  of  Magdalen 
Through  every  age  and  clime, 

The  winds  of  fate  are  tossing  us 
Before  their  scorn  sublime. 

By  times  upon  the  lonely  wastes 

Where  trail  the  city  lights, 
We  taunt  the  traveller  as  he  hastes 

Across  the  troubled  nights; 

Or  'neath  the  moon  we  nestle  down 

On  some  cathedral's  heights. 

The  mountains  know  our  coming  well 

Far  pilgrimage  to  make ; 
The  salt  seas  scourge  us  with  their  swell ; 

The  winds  our  wild  prayers  take ; 
The  sunlight  and  the  starlight  strive 

Our  fevered  hearts  to  slake. 

[  62  ] 


Till  when  upon  our  calmed  souls 

The  peace  of  mountains  creeps, 
Our  trembling  sisterhood  unrolls 

Into  the  valley  deeps, 

And  clusters  'mong  the  thatch  and  vines 

Where  some  pure  maiden  sleeps. 

White  pilgrims  down  the  orchard  lane, — 

See,  night  comes  on  apace; 
And  one  far  casement  lights  the  plain 

From  my  love's  dwelling-place. 

Oh,  grant  her  there,  when  comes  the  moon, 

Your  silvery  embrace. 


IN  MEMORY'S  GARDEN 

THERE  is  a  garden  in  the  twilight  lands 
Of  Memory,  where  troops  of  butterflies 
Flutter  adown  the  cypress  paths,  and  bands 
Of  flowers  mysterious  droop  their  drowsy  eyes. 

There  through  the  silken  hush  come  footfalls 

faint 
And  hurried  through  the  vague  parterres  ;  and 

sighs, 

Whispering  of  rapture  or  of  sweet  complaint 
Like  ceaseless  parle  of  bees  and  butterflies. 

And  by  one  lonely  pathway  steal  I  soon 
To  find  the  flowerings  of  the  old  delight 

Our  hearts  together  knew  —  when  lo,  the  moon 
Turns  all  the  cypress  alleys  into  white. 


[  64] 


SONGS 

WOULD  God,  some  little  song  might  come 
To  hearts  of  men,  as  in  the  spring 
The  birds  confide  to  branches  numb 

At  April's  earliest  blossoming ! 
Till  lips,  like  stone  no  longer  dumb, 

With  life's  melodious  floods  might  ring  — 
Would  God,  the  song  might  come !  — 

But  gone  is  boyhood  from  the  heart ; 

For  all  the  bright  dream-army  fades  — 
The  knights,  the  troubadours  depart  — 

The  shepherd  swains,  the  lily  maids. 
Ah,  minstrel, —  where  thine  oldtime  art 

To  flood  with  tender  serenades 

The  windows  of  the  heart ! 

Hark !  through  earth's  cities  runs  a  cry 

Proclaiming  new  appointed  days 
Of  beauty  —  Hark !  — "  Old  hates  shall  die 

And  craft  shall  yield  the  soul's  due  praise, 
The  High  Fates  put  their  terrors  by  — 

And  man  walk  chainless  on  Life's  way ! " 
Song !     Song, —  take  up  that  cry ! 


[65] 


STAR-TRYSTS 

rilHE  pool  of  the  lilies  yearns  and  sighs 
A     All  night  long  for  its  starry  skies ; 
The  skies  look  down  through  the  lily  floats 
And  pine  all  day  for  their  ivory  throats. 

Winds  of  the  morning  clarion  far 

Their  taunt  at  the  heels  of  each  laggard  star ; 

There  is  flit  of  wings  where  the  boughs  hang 

over, — 
Arrows  of  sunlight  breath  of  clover. 

But  ah !  when  the  twilight  beetle  goes 

With  droning  whir  o'er  the  sleepy  rose, 

There  comes  one  perfect  hour  of  peace 

When  skies,  and  waters,  find  surcease; 

When  the  lotes  grow  fond  to  the  day's  embrace 

And  the  stars  bend  down  o'er  the  pool's  wan 

face ;  — 

One  perfect  hour  ere  night  comes  on, 
And  day  from  his  lily  loves  is  gone ;  — 
One  perfect  hour,  ere  the  moon  recalls 
The  loitering  stars  to  her  silver  halls. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  LOVE 

IF  years  ago  you  told  me,  dear, 
That  on  a  day  our  dreams  would  fade 
To  these  half-hearted  fancies  drear, 

I  should  have  grieved  and  felt  dismayed. 

But  yet  so  softly  has  the  rain 
Of  dead  years'  ashes  settled  on 

Each  passion- jewel  that  the  pain 
Is  smothered  ere  all  light  has  gone. 

Ah,  be  it  thus  with  love's  decease !  — 
Its  day  is  done ;  its  shrine,  too  high 

To  brave  Time's  destined  tragedies ; 
Let  us  steal  down  ere  night  comes  by. 


[67] 


THE  VOICE 

OVER  the  fields  and  the  sea 
To  where  on  the  hill  I  was  sleeping 
There  whispered  a  Voice  unto  me, — 

"  Arise !  "  and  I  caught  the  sun  creeping 
In  under  the  door  of  the  room, 

And  my  eyes  still  sore  from  old  weeping 
Looked  up,  and  saw  'twas  a  tomb. 

Then  I  remembered  it  all ;  — 

The  hush  of  loved  voices ;  the  token 

Of  roses ;  the  tears  you  let  fall ; 

The  sobs  half  smothered  and  broken. 

Ah,  long  did  it  seem  since  my  breast, 
With  the  farewells  only  half  spoken, 

Had  heaved  its  last  sigh  into  rest. 

In  dust  fell  the  wreath  from  my  head 

As  I  broke  through  the  cobwebs  that  bound 
me. 

Still,  still  the  Voice  Beautiful  said,— 
"  Arise !  "  and  I  felt  all  around  me, 

Till  on  the  mildewy  floor 

Standing  atremble  I  found  me, 

And  softly  I  opened  the  door. 


[  68] 


Oh,  the  vast  surge  of  the  light, 

And  the  warmth,  and  earth-gladness!     The 

singing 
Of  birds  through  the  blossom-drifts  white, 

And  the  far  bells'  silvery  ringing! 
All  my  strange  robe,  as  I  stood 

In  the  sunlight,  grew  pure ;  the  lark  winging 
Shook  music  o'er  pasture  and  wood ! 

Out  on  the  glittering  lands 

A  great  white  army  went  slowly 
With  branches  of  palm  in  their  hands 

Mid  the  silence  seraphic  and  holy; 
Went  over  smooth  fields  near  the  sea 

Whence  that  Voice  came  murmuring  lowly, — 
"  Arise  and  come  unto  me !  " 

Rapturous  thrill  of  those  words ! 

As  I  felt  all  their  meaning  awaken, 
My  heart  leaped  up  with  the  bird's, — 

All  thoughts  of  old  sorrows  forsaken ! 
Out  o'er  the  fields  and  the  sea 

I  stole  till  the  throng  was  o'ertaken  — 
And  sighed,  "  Unto  Thee !    Unto  Thee ! " 


[69  ] 


THE  HAIL 

is  an  army  marching 
JL       Across  the  straining  roof; 
And  roused  from  sleep  I  hear  the  sweep 
Of  sabre,  drum,  and  hoof. 

And  every  chattering  window 

Is  trembling  as  in  fear 
While  on  the  blast  the  horde  goes  past 

And  leaves  the  storm-path  clear. 


[  70] 


DREAM  ELOQUENCE 

IN  dreams  of  thee  I  feel  the  eloquence 
That  floods  the  souls  of  poets  half  divine ; 
Earth  blooms  anew ;  and  music  takes  a  sense 
Of  glorious  pain ;  and  thought  gives  warmth 
like  wine. 

Oh,  to  give  this  to  language !     To  distil 
With  wizardry  this  heavenly  vapor  fleet! 

And  in  a  word,  a  gem,  a  flower,  at  will, 
Cast  all  my  trembling  passion  at  /<ft»  feet ! 


A  SIGH  FROM  ALHAMBRA 

THY  beauty's  orchard  in  decay !  — 
Thy   soul  an  exile  on  the  wind !  — 
Thy  cheek's  fond  jewel  in  the  clay 

With  Death's  imperial  signet  signed !  — 

Lo,  by  the  pathway  where  they  bore 
Thy  form  unto  its  cypress  urn, 

The  rose  droops  earthward  more,  and  more, 
As  though  to  hearken  thy  return ! 


[72] 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  AUGUSTUS 

COM'ST  thou  to  greet  me  at  the  Forum  gate 
Where  dwelt  Octavian,   earliest  star  of 
night,— 

Leaving  thy  little  vales  and  pools  of  light, 
Thy  paths  of  home  whereon  I  saw  thee  late? 
Sweet  is  thine  oldtime  message  here,  where  fate 
O'erwhelmed  man's  haughtiest  eminence  with 

blight- 
To  tell  this  crumbling  beauty  of  a  night 
Which  hath  survived  all  despots  and  all  state. 

Here    'mid    this    wrack    of    broken    arch    and 
shrine, — 

Rienzi's  haunt, —  Farnese's  hills  of  pine, — 
Where  'neath  Time's  very  brow,  the  Goths 
our  sires 

Entombed  slave-empire, —  here,  thy  purer  rays 

Bespeak,  O  childhood's  star !  —  Christ's  prom- 
ised days, 

The  lamps  of  peace,  the  hearths'  untainted 
fires. 


TO 

MARIE-LOUISE 

AND 

ARCHER  VANCE  PANCOAST 


IN  THE  CLOISTER  OF  SAN  JUAN 

MOONLIGHT  haunts  the  little  garden 
Of  the  cloister  of  San-Juan 
Where  the  Novice  Serafita  — 

She  so  fair  to  look  upon  — 
Steals  adown  the  fragrant  passes 

Near  the  fountains  murmuring  low 
While  the  misty  harbor  slumbers 

And  the  stars  and  lamplights  glow. 
In  that  garden  on  the  hillside 

There  are  roses  to  enslave 
Poets'  hearts  with  dreams  of  beauty 

To  the  threshold  of  the  grave; 
Shrines  of  Virgins  are  reflected 

In  the  founts  that  never  cease 
And  the  night  wind  in  the  trellis 

Whispers  orisons  for  peace. 
Gently  there  the  youthful  novice 

In  her  cloister  robe  of  white 
Bends  to  whisper  to  the  roses 

Dripping  with  the  dews  of  night ;  — 
"  Are  you  weeping,  little  sisters  ? 

Is  there  sorrow  in  your  breast 
At  this  hour  so  calm  and  saintly 

When  the  weary-hearted  rest  ?  " 
And  they  answer  in  the  moonlight 

For  their  souls  were  all  her  own 
Since  they  blossomed  in  her  kisses 

[  77] 


And  had  felt  her  hand  alone :  — 
"  We  are  weeping,  Serafita, 

O'er  the  sorrows  of  the  rose." — 
— "  Nay,  beloved," — she  makes  answer,-— 

"  Are  your  blossoms  not  of  those 
That  alone  upon  the  altar 

Through  the  silent  night  repose, — 
All  your  hearts  in  love  consuming 

At  the  threshold  of  your  Lord?  " 
But  they  whisper,  softly  weeping, 

— "  Few  there  be  for  such  award." — 
— "  Nay,"  she  pleads, — "  if  earth  so  claim  you, 
Be  the  tokens  that  enshrine 
Love  in  throthed  maidens'  bosoms 

In  avowal  half  divine." 
Then  they  answer,  "  Serafita, 

Nor  for  them  our  petals  weep, 
Who  upon  the  day  they  blossom 

At  the  feet  of  Jesu  sleep ; 
Nor  for  them,  our  gentle  sisters 

Who  on  maiden  hearts  find  grace 
There  to  breathe  out  all  their  being 

In  love's  sacrificial  place; 
But  our  tears  are  falling,  falling, 

For  the  roses  that  must  lie 
All  the  perfect  night  on  bosoms 

Whence  they  hearken  base  reply, — 
Lain  on  hearts  grown  deaf  and  heedless 

To  the  plea  that  roses  make, — 

[78  ] 


Roses  but  decoys  to  kisses 

That  are  poisoned  like  the  snake. 
These  have  filled  our  hearts  with  sorrow, 

Most  of  all,  the  dumb  despair 
Of  the  rose  upon  a  bosom 

Set  for  love  that  is  not  there." 
Then  —  so  runs  the  simple  legend  — 

There  came  fear  within  the  eyes 
Of  the  Novice  Serafita 

As  she  listened  to  their  sighs, 
Bent  and  wept  upon  their  petals  — 

And  with  prayer  her  lips  upon  — 
Hastened  through  the  silver  moonlight 

In  the  cloister  of  San  Juan. 


[79] 


THE  LEVANTINE 

FROM  off  her  back  she  swings  the  satchels 
down 
And  spreads  her  wares.     Her  hands  tattooed 

proclaim 

In  arabesque  her  tribe  and  creed  and  name, — 
The  swarthy  peddlar  through  our  inland  town. 
With  sharp  eyes  watching  for  a  smile  or  frown, 
Across  the  worlds  of  time  and  space  she  came, 
Relaxing  never  from  her  ancient  aim, — 
Here   where   the   blue-eyed   urchins   pluck   her 
gown. 

What  of  her  youth  and  gladness?  —  on  what 

shore 
Levantine, —  on  what  height  of  Lebanon, 

Rove  the  lithe  kinsmen  of  her  Biblic  race? 

Those  eyes,  perchance,  Stamboul  hath  doted-on, 

Or  Smyrna's  alleys  praised  —  ere,  to  our  door 

She  trudged  the  farmlands  with  her  beads 

and  lace. 


[80  ] 


AFTERGLOW 

OVER  the  orchard  one  great  star; 
The    yellow    moon;  —  and   the    harvest 
done; 

And  the  cheek  of  the  river  crimsoned  far 
From  the  kiss  of  the  vanished  sun. 


[81] 


THE  HOURS 

AWAKE, —  the  misty  waters  hear 
Across  the  hills  the  chanticleer 
Proclaim  his  ancient  warning! 
The  cloud-heaped  harbors  of  the  east 
Unfurl  as  for  a  bannered  feast 
The  crimson  sails  of  morning. 

Twelve  galleons  of  mauve  and  red 
And  liquid  gold  and  at  their  head 

The  day-star  gleaming  o'er  them, 
From  out  their  offing-bar  advance 
With  breasting  sheets  and  crystal  dance 

Of  rainbow  sprays  before  them. 

And  lo! —  the  opal'd  waters  raise 

The  waves'  white  brows  to  swell  their  praise 

Along  the  paths  they  follow; 
While  all  the  hills  and  strands  are  stirred 
With  low  of  kine  and  song  of  bird, 

With  flight  of  cloud  and  swallow. 

Twelve  argosies  ye  be  that  go 

With  freights  of  joys,  and  pains,  and  woe, 

By  ways  where  none  may  linger; 
The  day-star  fades  upon  your  mast, 
Your  sails  of  ruby  meet  at  last 

The  noontide's  jealous  finger. 

[82  ] 


The  breath  that  drives  you  o'er  the  skies 
Knows  never  lapse,  nor  ever  dies ; 

Your  pilot's  eye  ne'er  closes ; 
From  morning  star  to  evening  star 
Fate  speeds  you  on  his  paths  afar 

From  dawn's  to  sunset's  roses. 

Then  as  through  Night's  black  gulfs  you  swing, 

O  what  a  motley  harvesting 

Your  weary  hulks  go  bearing !  — 
What  wharfage  waits  their  strange  discharge  — 
Or  in  the  void  doth  every  barge 

Sink  in  one  swirl  despairing? 

Upon  the  hills  we  crouch  all  night 
And  ply  our  God  with  question  trite, 

Where  sail  those  fleets  of  morning? 
Till  swift  again  across  the  world 
New  silver  halliards  are  unfurled 

And  chanticleer  is  warning. 


[83] 


RUSSIAN  SPRINGSONG  AFTER 
MINAIEV 

SHE  softly  droops  her  maiden  ejes 
Behind  the  casement  ledge  at  home, 
And  ever  and  anon  she  sighs, — 

"  Ah,  if  the  spring  would  only  come !  " 

Another  on  his  bed  of  pain 

With  hope  of  health  and  sunshine  near, 
Warms  his  faint  heart  with  like  refrain, — 

"  Ah,  if  the  spring  were  only  here !  " 

And  soon  the  spring  with  flower  and  dove 
Brings  each  a  portion  on  its  breath :  — 

For  her,  sweet  blossomings  and  love; 
For  him,  sweet  blossomings  and  death. 


[84] 


ON  THE  PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA,  ROME 

QUNLIGHT  and  starlight  find  them  still  the 

O  same, 

Still  crowd  the  strange  years  by ;  each  carven 
name 

Grows  dimmer  on  the  marble  balustrade 

That  winds  unto  the  Pincian  with  its  shade 

Of  cypress  and  of  ilex,  file  on  file, 

Beyond  the  cross-crowned  needle  from  the  Nile. 

Ne'er  come  the  winds  and  rains  as  strangers  here 

Where  Keats'  great  soul  went  forth;  the  lant- 
erns peer 

By  twilights  opaline  as  those  he  knew ; 

The    low-voiced    fountain    sobs    its    midnights 
through. 

New  popes,  new  princes,  hail  with  old  array 

The  saints  and  triumphs  granted  for  to-day ; 

New  flowers  are  bartered-f  or  beneath  the  sun ; 

New  dreamers  come  to  sigh  o'er  days  undone. 

Proud  Rome, —  they  took  the  garlands  of  your 
tombs 

To  drape  their  ploughshares,  to  inspire  their 
looms ; 

They  lit  their  furnace  at  your  altar  fires ; 

And  scoured  the  seas  and  sped  their  glistening 
tires 

Through  worlds  you  knew  not;  yet  unsatisfied 


[85  ] 


They  come  —  Gaul,  Teuton,  Anglian,  in  their 

pride  — 

To  wrest  the  fuller  message  from  your  glooms, 
The  word   of   life, —  their   ear   against   your 


[86] 


MATINS 

WHEN  in  your  heart  the  song  seems  ended 
And  life  and  laughter  no  more  keep  tune 
With  the  lilt  of  the  waters  and  day  seems  blended 
With  shadows  that  stray  from  some  ghostly 

moon, — 
Faint  heart,  remember  the  month  of  June. 

Then    the    southwind   whispers   the   trees,   "  O 

brothers, 

Awake  and  array  ye  for  the  feast ! " 
And   the   lambkins   bleat,   "It   is   dawn,    dear 

mothers ! " 

And  the  tulips  hailing  the  sun  as  priest 
Lift  up  their  chalices  to  the  east. 

Yea,  and  each  leaf  like  a  cymbal  beating 
Proclaims  its  paean  by  hill  and  glen, 

Laudate  Dominwm  repeating. — 

And  you,  faint  heart,  what  sing  you  then 
As  the  brooks  and  the  birds  respond  Amen? 


[87] 


GROVER  CLEVELAND 

NO  surge  fanatical,  no  tide  of  greed 
Raised  him  to  grasp  our  destinies  supreme ; 
Nor    battering    mob,    nor    plutocrat's    foul 

scheme 

Held  back  his  hand  from  its  appointed  deed 
Of  righteousness ;  nor  doth  chicane  succeed 
To  smirch  his  laurels  —  though  no   foolish 

gleam 

Theatric  plays  around  his  brows  that  seem 
Set  like  Gibraltar  so  the  world  may  heed. 

Lo,  vistaed  down  the  morning  peaks  of  Time, 
Not  flushed  with  youth  nor  with  th'  exultant 

crest 

Of  pioneer  or  combatant,  he  stands ! 
Exemplar  to  our  manhood  in  its  prime  — 
Of  all  true  citizens  acclaim  as  best, 

The  clean,  ripe  mind,  the  lawful  heart  and 
hands. 


[88] 


WITH  THE  SHEPHERDS  ON  THE  HILLS 

BESIDE  its  weary  mother  the  lamb  began 
to  bleat:  — 
"  Mother,  mother,  hearken  to  the  voices  strange 

and  sweet ! " 

(The  old  ewe  slumbered  deeply;  the  winds  and 
clouds  were  fleet.) 

"  O  mother  look  and  tell  me  what  forms  are 

these  in  flight 
Across    the   hills    and   valleys  —  what   floating 

eyes  of  light?" 
("  Hush,    you    are    dreaming, —  the    mists    are 

thick  to-night.") 

"  But  mother,  mother,  listen, —  they  are  whis- 
pering again 

That  Christ,  a  Lord  and  Savior,  is  born  this 
night  to  men 

In  David's  holy  city  adown  our  pasture  glen  — 

"  And   see, —  like   drifting  fleeces   through   the 

midnight  air  they  wing  — " 
("  Wake  me  not,  little  one,  mine  eyes  see  not 

a  thing.") 
"  Oh  hearken,  hearken,  mother, —  a  Gloria  they 

sing! 


[89] 


"  And  see,  the  skies  are  clearing,  a  star  is  gleam- 
ing down 

Awake  and  follow,  mother,  for  amid  the  shadows 
brown 

The  shepherds  bear  me  with  them  on  the  path 
to  Bethlehem  Town." 


[90  ] 


NO  SPRING  TILL  NOW 

NO  spring  till  now, —  though  in  its  hushing 
voices 

The  garden  warned  me  of  the  year's  decline ; 
"  Not  here,"  they  said,  "  the  springtime  of  thy 

choice  is ; " 
And  in  the  falling  star  I  read  the  sign. 

The  long  night  through  I  followed  at  its  warn- 
ing* 
And   now  —  the   mocking  fires    and   pitfalls 

passed  — 

Footsore  and  faint  I  wait  the  soul's  white  morn- 
ing 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  spring  at  last. 

No  spring  till  now!  —  O  heart,  stay  yet  thy 

gladness, 
Ere  yet  thou  leav'st  the  crags  and  marshes 

drear 

Where  thou  hast  won  thy  way  in  toil  and  sad- 
ness, 

One  last  farewell  —  turn  thou  and  bless  them 
here. 


[91  ] 


Yea,  Hope  supernal  o'er  my  brow  uncloses 
The  golden  vials  of  a  perfect  day; 

And    see,    my    gaping   wounds    all    turned   to 

roses, — 
My  soul,  a  lark  that  wings  upon  its  way ! 


[92] 


A  GARDEN  PRAYER 

we  were  earthlings  and  on  earth  must 
1     live 
Thou   knewest,   Allah,   and   did'st   grant   us 

bread ; 
Yea, —  and  remembering  of  our  souls  —  did'st 

give 

Us    food   of   flowers;  —  Thy   name   be   hal- 
lowed ! 


[93] 


TO 
JOHN  J.  DONLAN 

FRIEND  AND  REVEREND 


THE  NOEL  OF  ST.  ELOI 

THEN    you    have    seen    the    Wise-Kings 
pass, — 

My  children,  answer  me; 

Quick,  sit  you  down  and  rest,  alas, 

How  tired  your  feet  must  bet 

O  mother,  we  did  climb  the  hill, 

Yet  it  was  all  in  vain; 
For  though  we  ran  their  banners  still 

Lay  out  beyond  the  plain ; 
Their  steeds  went  galloping  afar 
Beneath  the  wintry  evening  star 

With  golden  crest  and  rein. 

Could  you  not  see  their  holy  eyes, 

The  sacred  gifts  they  bore? 
Their  magic  wands  of  wondrous  size, 

Their  books  of  hidden  lore? 

We  hurried  down  the  orchard-side 

Though  darkness  had  begun; 
Beyond  the  woods  we  saw  them  ride 

On  clouds  across  the  sun ; 
And  then  they  vanished  in  the  west 
Just  where  the  sun  sinks  down  to  rest 

And  stars  came,  one  by  one. 


[97  ] 


Alas!  then  you  did  miss  them  so?  — 

/  saw  them  pass  the  hill 
And  straightway  to  the  chapel  go, — 

We  there  shall  find  them  still. 

And  shall  we  see  their  faces  there, — » 
Each  King  with  robes  and  crown? 

Quick,  mother  dear,  the  meal  prepare 
And  let  us  hasten  down ; 

For  hark,  the  parish  bells  we  hear 

Ring  down  the  valley  sweet  and  clear 
To  welcome  them  to  town ! 


[98] 


NIGHT  IN  THE  SUBURBS 

PEACE  after  fevered  hours ; 
No  more 

The  clatter  of  streets  and  harbor  roar ; 
Only  some  wind-swept  tree 
Recalls  the  jostle  and  anxiety, 
Only  some  drowsy  hill,  the  city's  surging  towers. 
Night,  be  thou  mindful  of  thy  sacred  bond ! 
Come  not  as  when  thy  reign 
Shook  fen  and  hill  beyond 
Man's  outposts  with  the  roaring 
Of  beasts  in  rage  and  pain: 
But  turn  thine  eyes,  imploring 
The  boon  of  sleep 
Upon  these  garden  eaves,  and  keep 
Thy  faithful  tryst  and  pure, 
Here  where  calm  mothers  rest 
Enriched  with  loving  turmoils  of  the  nest ; 
Here  where  man's  dreams  endure, 
And  stalwarth  arms  in  sleep 
Reach  toward  the  heights  of  steel  and  granite 

strewn 

In  proud  up-tumble, 

Where  bridges  swing  to  heaven  above  the  rumble 
Of  star-fed  bees 

That  float  amid  the  wonder  of  the  moon 
On  merchant  embassies. 
Dreams  glorious  such  as  these 

[99  ] 


The  sculptor  knows  upon  his  work-shop  bed 
Beneath  the  marble  where  he  would  fulfill 
Some  final  loveliness  —  which  still 
Dawn  sees  unfinished. 


[100] 


RAVELLO 

LORDS    of    Ravello  — men    of      craft   and 
might 

Whose   bones  are   dust  in   scattered  tombs  to- 
night 

Along  Amalfi's  splendor-haunted  coast — 
Warriors,  bishops,  merchants  —  turbulent  hosts 
So  stiff  and  stark  on  many  a  carven  shrine 
At  Scala  and  Atrani;  Angevine, 
Lombard  and  Norman,  ye  who  sound  no  more 
For  war  or  revel  round  Salerno's  shore, — 
Come  ye  not  ghostly  back  at  hours  like  these 
To  high  Ravello,  whose  proud  n^steries 
Of  crag  and  valley  ye  can  solve  alone  ?  — 
Castles  and  ports  deserted  —  towers  o'erthrown 
Where  once  ye  held  you  strong  'gainst  storm 

and  foe — 

Nameless  —  agape  to  all  the  winds  that  blow  ?  — 
__  From  far  below,  the  fisher-town  appear,, 
x     Chants  as  ye  fashioned  in  the  ages  when 
With  Sicily  ye  crushed  the  Saracen. 
And  ere  the  plaints  are  done,  some  ancient  bell 
Among  the  valley  domes  awakes  to  tell 
Once  more  the  story  of  the  fragrant  years :  — 
How   erst  by   that   steep   footway,   where  one 

hears 

Now  but  the  fountain's   drip,  there  rose  the 
clash 

[  101  1 


Of  battle-axe,  and  falchion,  and  the  flash 
Of  Pisan  steel  against  the  Norman  shields, 
As  flamed  the  bolted  gates,  the  ravaged  fields :  — 
How  once  rang  battle-cries  from  town  to  town 
Round  holy  Trophimena's  bones  dragged  down 
From  out  Minori's  shrine  by  pirate  bands 
That  sought  the  relics  for  their  unblest  lands. 
Nay,  'tis  no  moon  that  silvers  all  your  shore, 
Lords  of  Ravello,  where  your  feasts  are  o'er, 
But  gleam  of  jewelled  goblets  that  ye  cast 
Upon  the  deeps  as  cup  on  cup  was  passed. 
For  here  ye  kissed,  and  poniarded,  and  played ; 
Troths  plighted;  yea,  and  sleeping  friends  be- 
trayed !  — 
Fair  were  the  shrines  ye  reared,  ere  summoned 

hence  — 

D'Afflitto, —  Ruf  olo, —  in  penitence ! 
Fallen  —  fallen  Amalfi !     Gone  her  Doges'  days 
Of  pageantry !       None  but  the  dreamer  stays 
To  trace, —  Ravello, —  in  thy  roofless  holds 
The  names,  the  glories,  that  the  moss  enfolds. 
Yet  no  such  breath  of  lemon  groves, —  no  skies 
Of  purple, —  fold  your  haughty  kin  that  lies 
Afar  in  Naples,  where  the  mass-bells  swing 
And  choristers'  and  peddlars'  outcries  ring 
Through  the  alley  mazes.     For  their  full  repose 
Not  even  avails  the  sanctuary  close  — 
Where,  scorn  of  their  own  pauper  offspring's 
feet, 


They  frown  in  stone, —  while  bells  and  censers 

greet 

God's  very  Self  called  earthward  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  many  crouch  in  fear  and  few  adore. 


[108] 


SEVILLANA 

SUN  in  the  darkening  west, 
Wouldst  thou  vie  with  the  damask  fiow'r 
In  her  raven  hair  at  rest? 

Pale  moon  of  the  twilight  hour, — 
Like  mine  hath  thy  cheek  confest 
Dolores9  lovely  pow'r. — " 

Hush,  music  —  her  whisper  is  heard 
At  the  lattice;  I  bend  o'er  her  hand 

Which  flutters  in  mine  like  a  bird. 

As  the  wave  to  the  shell  on  the  strand, 

My  soul  is  outpoured  in  a  word 

That  her  ear  is  not  fain  to  withstand. 

Up  from  the  alley-way  steals 

The  cobbler's  rap-a-tap  song: — 
"  Ha,  ha!  for  the  lover  who  feels 

Both  his  heart  and  shoe-leather  so  strong 
That  they'll  never  wear  down  at  the  heels  — 

Ha,  ha!  but  love's  journeys  are  long!  " 

On  streams  the  night;  there  is  breath 

Of  the  tangerines  over  the  walls. 
"  Forever  —  thine  only,"  she  saith, 

As  soft  from  the  belfry  there  falls 
The  stroke  of  The  Souls  —  sighing,  "  Death  - 

Death  —  and  the  loves  it  recalls !  " 

[  104  ] 


Peace  to  you,  souls  of  the  past  — 
Lovers  whose  yearnings  are  o'er !  — 

Yea,  bid  the  loveless  sleep  fast, 

White  moon,  with  thy  seal  to  their  door ! 

But  O  my  Dolores !  —  at  last 

Thy  lips  —  upon  mine  —  evermore!  — 


[  105  ] 


TO  FRANCIS  THOMSON 

AS    lightning    o'er    some    village    feast    of 
lamps, 
Thy   spirit   still   flashed   across    these    little 

times 

Of  babbling  sages  and  ear-cozening  rhymes. 
The  storm   comes   on!     Lo,   what  new   pallor 

stamps 
The  brows  that  with  thee  held  the  high-pitched 

camps 
Of  beauty  'gainst  the  horde  from  out  the 

slimes 
Of  Greed  and  Hate,  who  clutch  the  heaven-set 

chimes 

To  drag   them   jangling   down   the   fens    and 
damps ! 

For   thou   art   gone  —  thy   "  stammer    of   the 

skies  " 
Resolved  to  ultimate  song!     The  white  gleam 

lies 

Along  the  dismal  streets  thy  feet  have  passed, 
And  shame  burns  hot  on  cheeks  thou  erst 

found  cold. 

Thy  giant  soul  hath  Pindar  claimed  at  last; 
Thee  to  his  breast  Assisi's  son  doth  fold. 


[106] 


THE  CATHEDRAL,  BURGOS,      1905 

HIGH  in  their  groves  of  stone  the  ancient 
bells  intone.) 
Hosannas  fling  we  on  the  midnight  air ! 

For  tongues  of  silver,  lips  of  brass  are  ours, 
And  far  to  sing  their  gladness  and  their  care 
Men  hung  us  here  amid  these  carven  bow'rs, — 
In  excelsis  Gloria! 

(Then  pulse  with  joyous  tone  the  Spires  in  uni- 
son.) 

We  that  are  earth's  last  flowering  up  to  God 
Lift  to  the  stars  the  gladness  of  the  land ! 
(The   Gargoyles   mouth   and   leer  from   every 

ledge  and  pier.) 

We  for  earth's  outcasts  witness ;  in  the  sod 
Both    worm    and    flower    are    equal    in    His 
hand, — 

In  excelsis  Gloria! 

(Hark,  the  Foundation-Stone  heaves  forth  its 

joy  alone.) 
Brother  to  that  bare  stone  of  Bethlehem 

Whereon  His  earliest  pillow  was, —  am  I!  — 
Let  the  glad  chimes  remember  that  for  them 
My  shoulders  prop  their  eyries  in  the  sky  — 
In  excelsis  Gloria! 


[  107  ] 


(Then  from  the  Organs  pour  the  canticles  of 

yore.) 
To  God  in  utmost  heaven  let  proud  acclaim 

Of  Glory,  Love,  and  Sovereignty  resound  1  — 
O  that  the  winds  which  over  Bethlehem  came 
Were   in    our   throats   to   make    His    praise 
abound  — 

In  excelsis  Gloria! 

(And  as  their  chants  arise  the  Baptistery  sighs.) 

O  Bethlehem  in  me  each  day  renewed !  — 

(The  Crypt  where  deep  are  stored  monarch,  and 

saint,  and  lord.) 

Hosanna  from  the  Manger  of  the  Dead ! 
(The  Altar-Tapers  fair  burn  out  their  souls  in 

prayer.) 
There  was  a  star  upon  that  solitude 

Wherefrom    was    Perfect    Light    on    Juda 
shed, — 

In  excelsis  Gloria! 

(Then  all  the  Townsfolk  cry  in  one  clear  song 

on  high.) 
Flesh  of  our  flesh  —  unto  the  earth  He  came ; 

Soul  of  His  soul  —  to  win  us  home  again ! 
Our  souls  and  bodies  worshipping  proclaim 
The  Christ  in  us  reborn  this  night  to  men  — 
In  excelsis  Gloria! 
Et  in  terra  Pax! 


THE  TARDY  SPRING 

UNTIL   the   spring  — until   the   breath   of 
May, 
She  meekly  craved  her  Lord  that  she  might  stay. 

"  Yea,    till    the    spring," —  He    whispered    her 

apart, — 
"  Until  the  May,  thou  gentle,  trusting  heart." 

But  bleak  and  tardy  crept  the  days  along ; 
There  came  no  bloom  for  her,  no  flit  of  song, — 

And  at  the  last  she  sighed, —  "  The  flowers  de- 

lay- 
Perchance  they  wait  to  meet  me  on  my  way  — " 

She    died  —  at    morn    we    threw    her    windows 

wide  — 
Anemones  filled  all  the  garden  side. 


[  109  ] 


THE  POOL  OF  THE  HAZELS 

WHERE  bend  the  hazels'  ancient  boughs 
above, 

I  linger  by  the  mountain  pool  and  dream ; 
The  branches  whisper  names  and  runes  I  love, 
The  waters  eye  me  with  reproachful  gleam. 
For  here  the  footsteps  of  old  kings  have  been, 

And  in  the  depths  their  glittering  baubles  lie ; 
Their  crowns,  their  torques,  their  silver  wands, 

are  seen, 
With  drowsy  salmon  softly  brushing  by. 

And  as  I  muse  the  hazel  nuts  drop  down 

Below  the  shadowed  surface  with  a  gasp; 
But   when    my    arm   would    seize   a   sword    or 
crown, — 

Ah,  see,  the  ripples  hide  it  from  my  grasp. 
And  once  again  the  nightwind  at  my  ears 

Is  whispering,  "  Dreamer,  vain  is  all  your 

toil! 
Leave  if  you  will  your  little  meed  of  tears, 

But  from  the  Pool  of  Sorrows  take  no  spoil." 


NOEL  OF  STE.  ANNE  DE  CHICOUTIMI, 
QUEBEC 

<  *  T7\RIEND    Jeanne-Marie,    'tis    the    holy 

J/     night, 
Thy  cloak  put  on,  thy  lantern  light." 

(Hark  to  the  joyous  carillon!) 
"  Therese,  no  childless  wife  can  say 
Fit  prayers  to-night ;  go  thou  and  pray." 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 
"  Nay,  Jeanne-Marie,  at  the  chapel  door 
Thou  canst  kneel  till  the  mass  is  o'er, 

(Hark  to  the  solemn  carillon !) 
While  I  go  up  to  the  Crib  and  make 
Bon-Jesu  homage  for  thy  sake." 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 
Frosty  stars  from  the  sky  look  down ; 
Lanterns  pass  to  the  hillside  town ; 

(Hark  to  the  holy  carillon!) 
And  there  they  see  'mid  the  lights  and  awe 
The  waxen  Infant  on  the  straw. 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 
"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  good  Jeanne-Marie. 
The  mass  is  over;  come  with  me." 

(Hark  to  the  noisy  carillon !) 
"  Therese,  Therese, —  old  neighbor  dear, — 
I  must  have  slept, —  He  —  He  came  here." 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 
"  Hush,  Jeanne-Marie,  and  come  away; 


The  church  is  cold, —  'twill  soon  be  day.1 

(Hark  to  the  dying  carillon!) 
"  Yes,  in  my  sleep,  Therese,  I  saw 
The  Infant-Jesu  leave  the  straw, 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 
And  come  and  lay  His  forehead  blest 
Here,  Therese,  on  my  childless  breast, 

(Hark  to  the  merry  carillon!) 
And  then  I  heard  the  children  sing 
The  glad  Adeste  to  their  King." 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 
"  Jeanne-Marie*  another  year 
Thyself  mayst  to  the  Crib  draw  near." 

(Hark  to  the  echoing  carillon !) 
"Pray  God,  Therese,  that  I  may  there 
Among  the  mothers  make  my  prayer." 

(The  bells  ring  Noel,  Noel.) 


[  11*] 


A  PANEL  AFTER  TURNER 

THE  peacock  on  the  balustrade 
Of  ambered  marble  sleeps  away ; 
His  feathered  train's  begemmed  array 
Sweeping  the  poppies  in  cascade. 

The  fountain  Triton  flings  about 
His  spray  amid  the  tawny  sun 
Where  shines  a  lithe  chameleon 

Like  tinsel,  basking  noontide  out. 

While  weary  of  the  perfumed  air 
The  butterfly,  a  white  Pierrot  — 

Droops  o'er  the  jasmine  pulsing  slow 
His  petaled  wings  of  opal  rare. 

They  dream  —  Afar,  see,  tumbling  high, 
The  storm's  gray  chaos !  Its  decrees 
The  enpurpled  plumage  of  the  trees 

Proclaims,  "  Faint  rose,  the  rain  is  nigh." 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  SETTER 

/CORINTHIAN    of    dogs,    how    word    the 

V-/   grace 

That  guides   your  movements?     How   portray 

your  face, —  , 

The  meditation  of  your  eyes,  your  po)e 
Of   royal  head?     Such   were   great   Landseer's 

J°JS 

Who  in  your  woodland  splendor  lithe  and  frank 
Found  your  race  Greek  from  chest  to  slender 

flank 

And  gave  you  poetry  for  heritage. 
Would  that  in  his  —  your  high  breed's  classic 

age  — 

He  could  have  seen  and  caught  the  charm  again 
Of  sunlight  rippling  through  your  silken  mane 
Of  white  and  gold!  Would  he  could  see  you 

now 

Cleaving  the  goldenrod  like  Dian's  plough 
And  quick  with  autumn's  half  barbaric  mood 
Scattering  the  sumac  leaves  in  showers  of  blood ! 
Or  as,  in  carved  Olympiad  runners'  pose, 
With  ears  peaked  high  you  watch  the  cloud  of 

crows 

Flock  with  sarcastic  echoes  o'er  the  plain, 
Knowing  pursuit  and  challenge  are  in  vain. 


HOW  LIKE  THE  ROSE 

HOW  like  the  rose  to  bloom  a  day 
And  leave  but  memory  behind 
Of  where  among  the  thorns  she  twined, 
Frail  visitant  who  might  not  stay! 
What  godhead  grants  the  thorns  delay 
— To  riot  in  their  native  clay 
While  beauty  passes  on  the  wind, 
How  like  the  rose! 

Ah.  whither  must  she  thus  away 
Whose  embassy  hath  been  so  kind 
That  Love  no  other  voice  would  find 

Than  hers  to  warn  our  hearts  and  say, 
How  like  the  rose! 


* 


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